søndag 29. mars 2015

Among the many peculiarities of the Norwegian
Volksgeist is a strange,
borderline unhealthy relationship with snow. When the first snowfall
of the season comes we usually curse it very loudly and fall prey to
the slippery roads caused by it, even though we have experienced the
situation every past year and will continue to experience it in the
years to come. It is as if we live in a state of perennial denial,
refusing to believe in the dangerous qualities of snow until they
cause us trouble. Then, when the snow has set on the ground and we
are reconciled with the novelty of the situation, we celebrate snow
by watching winter sports on TV and wishing for a white Christmas,
even though that white Christmas often results in agonisingly slow
traffic and risk of power failure. When all this wintry wondering has
been going on for a while, when Easter is approaching and we sense
that the now-familiar snow is about to disappear, we migrate en masse
to the mountains to make sure that we stay in winter for one more
week. It is this adoration of snow that made a Norwegian humorist to
suggest that Norway was first inhabited by the tribe idiot who, when
he saw the ice receding from Schleswig-Holstein or Britain, decided
to follow the familiar element and keep close to the ice-rim at all
times.

My family has fortunately not subscribed to these
antics, but this Palm Sunday we nonetheless decided to take a short
hike up the valley where we live, even though that meant leaving the
bare fields behind in favour of snow-covered mires and ice-covered
waters. Below are a few scenes from this trip, as a conclusion to the
March series of blogposts, showing parts of my home village in all its late-March bleakness and beauty.

tirsdag 24. mars 2015

Since
the past few days have entailed and will entail quite a lot of travelling
for me, I will in this blogpost very briefly present two very
different historical snippets, both concerning fleas.

The first flea can be found in Legenda Aureaby
Jacobus de Voragine, as part of an anecdote about the great desert
father Macarius of Egypt (c.300-90), founder of a monastery in Scetis in
Egypt, whose feast-day is January 15. The best known accounts of
Macarius are in the collections of stories known asApothegmataPatrum or Sayings of the Desert Fathers, and Vitae Patrum or Lives of the Desert Fathers.
However, it doesn't seem that Jacobus knew these collection sfrom first-hand experience,
as there are several anecdotes in the themwhich are not included in the
Legenda. For instance, in Vitae Patrum we are told how Macarius healed the blindness of a hyena's
puppy, and how as a reward the hyena brought Macarius a sheepskin for him to
sleep on.

A further indication that Jacobus did not draw on these collections is the anecdote of the
flea, which is not found in either. In Legenda Aurea the
story goes as follows:

Fresco
of St Macarius, by Theophanes the Greek (1340-1410) from 1378
Church of the Transfiguration on Ilina Street, Veliky Novgorod
Courtesy of Wikimedia

Once a flea bit
Macarius and he killed it with his hand, and a great deal of blood came out of
it. As a punishment for having so avenged the injury done him he lived naked in
the desert for six months and came out with bites and scabs all over his body. After
that he fell asleep in the Lord, renowned for his many virtues.- Jacobus de
Voragine, Legenda Aurea (translated by William Granger-Ryan)

The
second flea is a poem composed by John Donne at the turn of the sixteenth
century, and the text is taken from Bartleby. Donne's poem is in marked contrast to the
anecdote of Macarius, because although both are concerned with the
negative consequences of killing a flea, John Donne's poem is an erotic
argument whose purpose would be horrifying to the lover of chastity Macarius.
The poem is typical of Donne's clever verbal play in which metaphors for love
and sex are drawn from objects, animals and even geographical abstractions. It
was this quality that made Samuel Johnson baptise this style of poetry – very popular
throughout the seventeenth century – “metaphysical poetry”.

torsdag 12. mars 2015

The nightingales in
Haveringatte-Bower
Sang out their loves so loud, that Edward’s prayers
Were deafen’d and he pray’d them dumb
- Alfred Lord Tennyson, Harold, Act I, Scene II

Edward the Confessor occupies a big place in English history and folklore, both
because of his office as king of England and because of his role as one of
England’s royal saints. As a consequence, there are several legends about him
that have been in circulation throughout the centuries. One story claims that
he aided Harold Godwinsson in the Battle of Stamford,
while another, and one of the most widely famous of these legends, states that
he gave his ring to a beggar who turned out to be John the Evangelist .
We will return to this latter legend later on, but the main focus of this
blogpost is another and much more recent story.

In his play Harold,
Alfred Lord Tennyson presents a dramatised account of the Norman Conquest
centred around the figure of Harold Godwinsson. In Act I, Harold meets with his
sister Edith, Edward the Confessor’s wife, and as Harold enters the stage he
recounts the brief anecdote quoted above. The story goes that Edward, who was more
of a monk than a king according to the very first biography of him, Vita Ædwardi (c.1070), spent his night
in prayer and meditation. One night he was at Havering, the nightingales sang
so loudly that they disturbed his prayers and so he prayed that they would be
quiet. Since Edward had God’s attention, the nightingales turned silent.

We don’t know how old this legend is, but evidence suggests that it is not very
old as far as legends go, and the earliest recorded instance is said to date
from the seventeenth century, according to AHistory of the County of Wessex.
There is no trace of it in the Latin vitae
of Edward that were written during the Middle Ages, and nor can it be found in
the historiographical or vernacular material – at least to my knowledge. The earliest account seems to stem from the early
modern period. Historian Deb Martin notes that a local legend – recorded by
Essex historian Philip Morant in 1768 – claimed that after this incident, the
nightingales never dared to sing in Havering again.
By the 19th century, this legend seems to have passed into historiographical
tradition, as we see in David Hughson’s London
from 1809. Here, Hughson notes that Havering Bower “was the seat of some of the
Saxon kings; particularly of Edward the Confessor, who took great delight in
it, as being woody, solitary, and fit for devotion” (Hughson 1809, vol. VI:
195). He then goes on to quote the legend, and repeats the story recorded by
Montagu that since then the nightingales had stopped singing in that place.

The story of Edward and the nightingales is a curious one, and even though we
can’t say for certain when the nightingales at Havering entered the legendary
of the Confessor, we can see in this story the conflation of two motifs from
medieval folklore.

The first motif is that of animals being silenced by a saint. Many saints are
said to have had command over animals, and this motif is found already in
Athanasius’ Life of Antony in which
we read how Antony of Egypt ordered animals to stay out of his vegetable
garden. This was the foundation for the later version of Antony’s life in which
it was said that he had a pet-pig, who became his primary iconographical
attribute. A later example of this motif can be found in the legend of St
Francis of Assisi, who was said to not only command birds but even locusts. In Legenda Aurea, Jacobus de Voragine
records the following incident (translated by William Granger-Ryan): “He
preached to the birds and they listened to him; he taught them and they did not
fly away without his permission. When swallows were chattering when he was
preaching, he bade them be silent and they obeyed” (Jacobus de Voragine 2012:
611). Whether there is a connection between this story and that of St Edward
and the nightingales is beyond conjecture, but it is nonetheless interesting to
see this motif recur in two such different settings.

The second motif at play comes singularly from
the legendary of Edward the Confessor, namely his connection to Havering. In
1809, Hughson stated that Havering had been a royal residence and that Edward
had spent time there. Whether the Confessor ever did spend much time at Havering
can not be ascertained, even though Hughson quotes the Domesday Book as marking
Havering as a feudum of the king. The earliest known record of Edward staying
at Havering comes from John Hardyng’s chronicle of 1437, where he states that Havering
was the setting for the legend of St Edward’s ring. Hardyng’s treatment of the
episode goes as follows:

In his forest, as he pursued a dere,
In Essex, a palmer with hym met,
Askyng hym good, whome gladly he dyd here,
He claue his ryng and in sonder it bette,
The halfe of whiche he gaue without lette
To the palmer that went awaye anone,
That other good to geue [hym] there had [he] none

But after that full longe and many [a] daye,
Two pylgrames came vnto that noble kynge,
And sayde, saint Iohn thappostell in pore araye
Vs prayed, and bad straytly aboue all thing,
To you present and take this halfe golde rynge,
Which ye gaue hym of almesse and charyte,
And bade vs say that right sone ye should him se:

Whiche ryng he set together there anone,
And that ylke place he called ay after Hauerynge,
And that same place where they it braste alone
He called by after that ryme Claueryng,
In Essex be bothe fayre standynge,
Where that he made two churches of saint Iohn
Theuangelyst, and halowed were anon
- The Chronicle of Iohn Hardyng, edited by Henry Ellis, printed in London, 1812: 232

Hardyng’s account is interesting in many ways.
First of all, he introduces the novel idea that Edward broke the ring in two
rather than giving it unbroken to the beggar (which is how it happens in Aelred
of Rievaulx’s Vita Sancti Ædwardi (1163),
the earliest source to mention this). Secondly, Hardyng states that Edward was
hunting when he first met the Evangelist. This is significant in that it is a
feature absent from the Latin hagiographical tradition, but it is included in
William of Malmesbury’s Gesta Regum
Anglorum, in which a hunting episode becomes an illustration of the king’s
calm temper (William of Malmesbury 1998: 348-49).

In the chronicle of John Hardyng, no reference is made to nightingales, only
his connection to Havering. We don’t know when the nightingales first enter the
stage, or what was the origin of the legend. One likely source, however, is the
Confessor’s coat of arms, which was a golden gross on a blue background
surrounded by five gold martlets.

The supposed coat-of-arms of Edward the Confessor

Courtesy of Wikimedia

This coat of arms did not exist in the time of the Confessor, but was believed
to have been his coat of arms in the fourteenth century. Therefore, when
Richard II merged his own coat of arms with that believed to be the Confessor’s,
the result was as follows.

Richard II's coat-of-arms, 1395-99

Courtesy of Wikimedia

The trajectory from Hardyng’s chronicle to the
legend recorded by Montague, Hughson and Tennyson can not be recovered, but in
the medieval texts and iconography we have seen here we might perceive at least
the origin of this charming story.

Aelred of Rievaulx, The Life of Saint
Edward, King and Confessor, translated by Jane Patricia Freeland, printed
in Dutton, Marsha (ed.), Aelred of
Rievaulx: The Historical Works, Cistercian Publications, 2005: 123-244

mandag 2. mars 2015

This spring I’m teaching a course on texts from
the medieval cult of saints. I’ve designed the course myself, which has allowed
me complete freedom in the selection of texts for the syllabus, and through this
course I aim to acquaint my students with the variety of medieval literature,
and the tropes of medieval hagiography. The most important of these tropes is
the omnipresent imitatio Christi, the
various ways in which the saint emulated the life and teachings of Christ. This
is an old trope that had its origin already in Luke’s account of the martyrdom
of Stephen in the Acts of the Apostles, and it was a compulsory feature in
every hagiographical account – although it was rendered in various ways.

These first weeks we have lingered in the early centuries of Christian
literature, and we have spent a lot of time on early virgin martyrs such as
Agatha, Lucy and of course Catherine of Alexandria. In class I have challenged
the students to identify the various forms of imitato Christi, and I’ve been very pleased with how quickly the students
have adapted to this way of analysing texts. However, I recently became aware
of one form of imitatio Christi which
I had overlooked, and perhaps as expiation for this negligence, I intend to talk
a bit about it here.

I realised my omission when I came across an illumination from a French book of
hours. The illumination was tweeted
by Professor Johan Oosterman,
and, as seen below, it depicts Christ disputing with the elders in the temple.

The illumination presents a story told to us in
the Gospel of Luke 2:41-52, where Joseph and Mary lose track of their child during
a visit to Jerusalem, and find him in the temple (NIV):After three days they found him in the
temple courts, sitting among the teachers, listening to them and asking them
questions. Everyone who heard him was amazed at his
understanding and his answers (Luke 2:46-47). This anecdote serves to
illustrate the superiority of Christ’s teaching over the misguided teachings of
the Jewish elders, and this is a recurring topic in the Gospels, perhaps most
poignantly expressed in Matthew 7:28-29 (NIV): When Jesus had finished saying these things, the crowds were amazed at
his teaching,because he taught as one who had authority, and not as their
teachers of the law.

Christ disputing MS Royal 2 B VII, English psalter, between 1310 and 1320Courtesy of British Library

To conquer those of a different faith through
debate is a recurring topic in hagiography, and appears already in the Acts of
the Apostles. From Acts 6:8-7:53 we are told how Stephen championed
Christianity before the Jewish council after he had been turned in by a group
of Jews. The episode is a conglomerate of Christ disputing with the elders in
the temple and Christ before the Jewish Sanhedrin,
the council, as recounted in the passion story. In this way, Stephen’s imitation Christi is twofold, and his
imitation reaches a third and ultimate point in his martyrdom. This is not to
say that the episode is fictitious or that it is doctored by Luke to correspond
to the life of Christ, but to a medieval reader of hagiography, it is very
likely that this amalgamation would have been evident. Stephen’s debate is also
the centre point of Jacobus de Voragine’s account of him in Legenda Aurea.

Another early Christian account of a debate between
a saint and representatives of a different faith is found in Athanasius’ Life of Antony (mid-fourth-century), the
first hagiography of Antony of Egypt, an account which was also widely
disseminated in the Latin world thanks to Evagrius’ translation. In chapter 72
of Evagrius’ translation and onwards through chapter 80, Antony’s rhetorical
prowess is demonstrated through various monologues against pagan philosophers
who sought him out in his desert lodgings. The account opens with the following
comment: “[Antony] was also remarkably wise: considering that he had no
education it was amazing how very clever and shrewd he was” (White 1998: 53). Antony’s
uneducated thwarting of pagan philosophy is a logical result of the promise of
Christ found in Matthew 10:19-20, where it is stated that during persecutions
the Holy Ghost will speak through the persecuted, and it is this divine aid
that allows Antony to render the pagans “struck with wonder and amazement”
(White 1998:59).

The debate against non-Christian is also an
important feature of the legend of Pope Sylvester. Sylvester is most famous for
his baptism of Constantine after the emperor had been cured of leprosy, and for
his battle against a dragon deep in the recesses beneath Rome.
In the account of his life in Legenda
Aurea, however, the major feature is his debate against the Jews, a debate
that brings about the conversion of Helena, Constantine’s mother.
The debate is arranged as a duel, where the Christian doctors are set to debate
with 161 of the most learned men of the Jews” (Jacobus de Voragine 2012: 65)
under the auspices of pagan judges, and if one debater fails to counter the
arguments of the other, he must step down and leave the scene for another on
his team. Sylvester is the first Christian contender, and in due course he
conquers the twelve most brilliant Jews – presumably a representative for each
of the twelve Jewish tribes. The contest ends not with rhetorical defeat, but
in a stand-down of miracles, in which Sylvester brings a bull back to life,
which the Jewish master Zambri had caused to fall dead to the ground, allegedly
by whispering the true name of God into its ear.

The most famous of these debaters of the faith
is of course Catherine of Alexandria. The story of the young Christian girl
debating fifty great pagan philosophers was well-known throughout the entire
Middle Ages, and her life was translated into several European vernaculars,
including Anglo-Norman and Middle Welsh. Catherine is often depicted with a
book to symbolise her wisdom, sometimes together with the instruments of her
passion, such as the big wheel or the sword that ultimately killed her. The
most expansive account of this story with which I am familiar is not the Legenda Aurea, where Jacobus’ chief
interest seems to be an orderly and summarily categorisation of Catherine’s
virtues and knowledge. A fuller rendition of Catherine’s contest can be found
in the Life of St. Catherine by
Clemence of Barking, written in the mid-twelfth century. Clemence’s portrayal
of Catherine’s debate is an evocative and emotive, and often contains brief
digressions and expositions on truth and folly. The pagan philosophers are
depicted as arrogant and jealous, being foolish for trusting more in their
philosophy than the pure faith of Catherine.

Katherine and the instruments of her passionMS Yates Thompson 3, French book of hours, Roman Use, c.1440-c.1450Courtesy of British Library

The story begins with Catherine defying
Maxentius of Alexandria’s persecution of Christians, imploring him to cease the
sacrifices to the pagan gods. Maxentius the tyrant starts debating with her,
but finds himself at a loss for words and decides to bring in the fifty finest
philosophers of pagandom, who will be debating against Catherine. At the onset
of the debate, a self-appointed spokesman for the group rises to his feet, and
before he starts speaking he is psychologically dissected by Clemence, who –
notwithstanding the theological commonplaces against philosophy – shows a keen
discernment in her portrayal of the human mind. After a short exposition of the
nature of arrogant men, Clemence lets the philosopher exclaim sarcastically:

Emperor, I am utterly astonished that you
have taken such wretchedadvice and promised
us such a great reward for vanquishing a woman skilled in debate. We have
travelled far and it was well worth it on her account! How gloriously our names
will be remembered after such a victory! If one wretched clerk had defeated her,
that would have been quite enough effort expended, and yet on her account the
finest clerks on earth are gathered here! Philosophers and grammarians,
especially rhetoricians and good dialecticians, have come here for a truly
important matter. She will certainly be able to oppose them, to lay out her
arguments and demolish theirs! Whoever she is, summon her, and we shall make
her concede and confess that she has never seen or heard men as wise as those
she has found here.
- Clemence of Barking, Life of Catherine (translated by Jocelyn Wogan-Browne),
1996: 10

The debate then ensues and Catherine emerges
victorious, causing the tyrant Maxentius to exclaim: “Lords, what has happened
to you? Have you all lost your wits? Why are you struck dumb and dismayed on
account of a woman?” (Wogan-Browne 1996: 19). Catherine’s rhetorical prowess
also converts a number of the philosophers, and leaves Maxentius with no other alternative
than to sentence Catherine to her death. Then we are told the famous passion
story, where the wheel on which she is about to be racked is broken by divine
intervention, and where she is ultimately beheaded.

The examples above are just a handful of cases
where the saint’s imitatio Christi
takes the form of the theological debate against non-Christians. On a minor
scale, this feature can be found in most accounts where the saint is brought
before a pagan king, as often was the case in the stories of the early martyrs,
but the martyrdoms mentioned above have the rhetorical contest as one of the
primary forms of imitatio Christi.
The topos grew out of a climate in which Christians saw themselves attacked by
the intellectual establishment comprised of grammarians and pagans well-versed
in the works of Greek and Roman philosophers. Even after Christianity had
become the intellectual and spiritual establishment, the topos continued to
attract the minds of the faithful, and that the contest between philosophy and
spiritualism never entirely went out of fashion can be seen in the famous case
of Abelard and Bernard of Clairvaux.

Om meg

Norwegian medievalist, bibliophile, lover of art, music and food. This blog is a mixture of things personal and scholarly and it serves as a venue for me to share things I find interesting with likeminded people.